


Twelve Bobby Pins

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Anonymous Sex, F/M, Hair-pulling, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Smut, Spanking, Swearing, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6926119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Maxson is a young man with a very important and very stressful job. His mental energy is exhausted by his responsibilities. His physical energy by a punishing fitness regime. His... baser needs tend to end up taking a back seat.</p><p>Sometimes, though, it all just gets too much. That's why he's walking through the gates of Diamond City with a knitted hat pulled down over his ears and his overly-distinctive coat stuffed into a bag. Just an anonymous drifter, in town for a few hours.</p><p>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This spawned from the same prompt as Tinyshot's magnificent [Shrouded](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6562894/chapters/15015217), but turned on its head to tie in with a little hc of mine.
> 
> This is the _incredible_ cover art by [AiraGitt](http://airagitt.tumblr.com/):
> 
>  
> 
> Isn't that amazing? omg. This is the [tumblr post](http://airagitt.tumblr.com/post/146719406123/a-small-gift-of-appreciation-fanartcover), go mash like and follow because wow.
> 
> Props should also go to [saiyuri-thedragonborn](http://saiyuri-thedragonborn.tumblr.com/) for very kindly putting Maxson in a knitted hat for me, for reference purposes.
> 
> (NB this led to [a whole different batshit concept](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com/post/143357947040/tessa1978-kickerwrites-tessa1978) which is unrelated but highly amusing.)

Arthur Maxson is a young man with a very important and very stressful job. His mental energy is exhausted by his responsibilities. His physical energy by a punishing fitness regime. His... baser needs tend to end up taking a back seat.

Sometimes, though, it all just gets too much.

He's been in the Commonwealth for four months now. His hand just isn't cutting it any more. Back in the Capital Wasteland, it was far easier. He had a particular route out of the Citadel, past some doors that only he could open, and then past a couple of guards who'd give him a knowing wink before letting him through.

That's much more difficult to achieve when you're docked a hundred feet above ground.

Not impossible, however. He does have the authority to declare that it's time for a recon mission. Boots on the ground. Clothes on the ground, with any luck, not that the crew need to know that. A vertibird, set to drop off and rendezvous a short way south of Diamond City, by the old railtrack. Close enough to limit any potential dangers he'll have to pass, far enough away as not to arouse unnecessary scrutiny.

Even better, he finds an unexpected boon en route. A Pulowski Preservation shelter. Just like in the comics, but in reverse. Step into the shelter an instantly-recognisable hero, step out of it an unknown drifter.

Perfect.

He pulls a knitted hat over his head, wraps a scarf around his neck and under his chin. He's allowed his beard to grow out a little over the last few weeks; more by accident than design. He rubs his hand over it; he knows it covers the scars on his left cheek, but the one on the right hand side remains stubbornly dark and distinctive, even now, seven years later.

That's fine, though. He won't be meeting anyone who recognises him.

Rolling his coat into the pack, and stepping back out into the world, he follows the signs to Diamond City. He walks past a few flimsy-looking turrets and guards that pay him next to no attention. A poor excuse for security. If the city, or town, or whatever hovel lies within were to come under attack, they'd be in real trouble.

"Sure, man, go on through," says a guard, leaning casually against the wall. His face is almost entirely obscured by the bars of his unusually-shaped helmet, and then further still by a pair of dark sunglasses underneath.

Now there's an idea. He stores it away for future reference.

He walks through into the City, and takes a look around. It's larger than he'd thought it would be from the maps. The shacks are haphazardly put together from scrap and old advertising hoardings, and further daubed in bright paint. The air is filled with the scent of smoke and food. It's marginally better than the air on the Prydwen. Less grease, at least.

He moves further in, down the steps and into the marketplace. It contains the expected kinds of stalls and vendors, and at least two robotic devices. One of them attends to a stand that appears to be a bar, though it's out in the open and he can't see even a single bottle of beer.

This can't be right.

He walks around the market, and only realises he's about to walk back out of the City when he reaches the bottom of the long flight of steps up to the entrance.

A small girl stands on a box to his right, holding a stack of papers. "Read all about the latest synth threat," she says, squinting at him.

"Where's the nearest bar," he asks, ignoring the paper she's holding out toward him. Even if he were interested, the misspelled title is a sign that it won't be worth reading anyway.

"Twenty caps to you, mister," she says.

He treats her to his finest glare. "Where is it?"

She rolls her eyes, lets out an impudent sigh, and points directly ahead of her.

The route leads down a dingy alley, not that anywhere else in this so-called city is much different. He wonders briefly if she might be playing a trick on him, but if he looks back, she might expect some caps. He has no time for that. Sun is setting.

Time's wasting.

Fortunately, the directions turn out to be genuine. The Dugout Inn, it's called, a filthy little bar set half underground. It's full of dirt-stained drifters sitting on dirt-stained furniture, ignoring each other. To the right of the bar is a sad-looking plant; to the left, a sad-looking man with a broom. In front of it, a number of stools of varying degrees of stability.

He picks one, sits on it, and orders a beer. The bartender tries to persuade him into a glass of some foul-smelling liquor, but he refuses. He has to pace himself. Alcohol dulls the senses and the mind. Along with some other things.

But soon he starts to regret his choice of seat; there's not much opportunity to strike up conversation when you're huddled over a beer like a squire protecting their dinner. He's just looking over his shoulder to check for a better location when the door slams open and two women walk in.

He turns back around and stares at his beer.

Shit.

Paladin Danse's team was supposed to be completing a mission in the north of the Commonwealth, around Salem. They'd departed almost a week ago, and had not yet reported back in.

This is not Salem.

That is not Paladin Danse.

But that is definitely the Knight, sharing jokes with a redheaded woman in a dark leather corset. Worse still, the two are crossing the room to sit at the bar beside him.

He's rooted to the spot, hand gripping tightly on the bottle, unwilling even to drink in case the movement rocks the stool and draws her attention.

"So," says the redhead. "How've you been?"

"Good," says the Knight. "Considering."

"Considerin' what?" says the redhead.

The Knight traces patterns on the bar in spilled beer. "If I told you," she says, "I'd have to kill you."

The redhead snorts, and pats the Knight on the hand. "That's sweet of you to say," she says. "I'm sure I'd have fun with you tryin'."

They continue talking about what the Knight can't talk about, and he tries to hear as little of it as possible. Eavesdropping on one's own men (or women) is rarely an uplifting experience. Fortunately, they move on to talking about combat techniques, including one recommendation for a combination move involving a shotgun and a switchblade that sounds absolutely fascinating.

He's just thinking how he can ask her about it later, without arousing suspicion, when he feels a slight change in the light, and in her posture. Her eyes are on him. They must be. She's noticed him. She's noticed him, she's recognised him, and she's wondering what the hell he's up to and deciding what she's going to do about it. He doesn't dare move, but she doesn't move either. It's an impasse, a silent impasse.

But he can't sit like this all evening, completely still, hand clenched around a rapidly-warming bottle of beer. So he steels himself, and turns his head to look at her, sure that he's going to see an expression of recognition on her face. Or disappointment, perhaps. Mockery, even.

He sees nothing of the sort, because she's actually only looking at the bottles lined up on the shelves at the back of the bar. But as surely as if it had been foretold in prophecy, it's that movement of his head that catches her attention. She casts him a brief glance, and he freezes once more. But there's no recognition in her eyes. It's a cool stare, as though she's never seen him before in her life.

"Evening," he says, his voice sounding faintly strangled.

She makes a dismissive noise, and turns back to her companion.

He holds in the sigh of relief. She hasn't recognised him. His disguise is good. And now is his chance to get away. He finishes the beer in a few gulps, and pushes himself off the stool.

A few steps away, he hears the redhead laugh, and say the Knight's name.

"Bad girl," she says. "You scared him off."

He ignores her, and continues toward the exit.

"Cop a load of that arse though," she continues, in a lower voice.

Not low enough.

Perhaps he's spent too long on the Prydwen, confined there with subordinates whose admiration of him occasionally verges on sycophancy. But the level of disrespect shown to him, even disguised as a simple drifter, rouses him to anger. He looks back over his shoulder.

The redhead has already turned back toward the bar, and is waving her hand at the bartender for more drinks. Meanwhile, the Knight is looking over her shoulder at him, but at a point far lower than his face.

It is obvious what she is looking at.

It is just as obvious that she likes what she sees.

He doesn't know what the hell to think about that, so he turns and heads for the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing outside, with dry winter air biting at his face, he realises that he's made a mistake. He can leave the bar, certainly, but he can't leave Diamond City. Not yet. The rendezvous isn't until the morning, and he can't sleep out in the ruins. But he doesn't know where he is, where he's going, or if there's anywhere else in this place he can bed down.

And he certainly can't turn around and go back in. Not yet, anyway.

He rubs his hand over his face and thinks. Maybe he can wait her out. She can't stay there all night.

There are a half dozen empty chairs and benches out here, ostensibly for the use of the bar's patrons, though it's far too cold for anyone else to have chosen to be outside. Most of the seats are set under or right next to flickering electric lights, so he takes care to pick one in the corner so that his face remains sufficiently shadowed. He lights a cigarette, and waits. Time passes, accordingly. He's not sure how long he sits there, but his toes become numb and the tips of his fingers icy cold, despite his gloves. He's just preparing to light yet another cigarette when the door opens, and the two women step outside once more, heading toward the muddy walkway.

"You're not going back to Goodneighbor tonight, are you?" says the Knight.

"Not if I can help it," says the other, with a wink. Then she catches sight of him, and quite obviously alerts the Knight to his presence with her eyes. "Maybe I'll, ah... go bother Piper for a bit."

He focuses on his lighter. It's been on a steady decline all evening, sputtering with every strike, and now stubbornly refuses to produce a flame at all. It's probably as cold as he is. He does have another, but that's wrapped up tight in his pack, deep in the pockets of his coat. He's just starting to slide the cigarette back into the packet, resigned to his fate, when a pair of shoes appear on the ground in front of him.

He looks up, cautiously. The shoes belong to the Knight. She's offering him a lighter, held loosely between two fingers.

"Thanks," he says, taking it. His fingers shake a little as he strikes up the flame. He tells himself it's just the cold. He succeeds in lighting the cigarette, and hands the lighter back to her.

"Filthy habit," she says, lighting one for herself. "One I particularly enjoy."

Suddenly he wonders if his voice is recognisable as his scars, and how he can possibly change that. Moderate his tone, adopt an accent, or just limit how much he says.

She pokes a toe at his pack. "Moving in or passing through?"

"Passing through," he says, opting for brevity.

"First time here?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says.

"Want some tips?" she asks.

He shrugs.

She sits down next to him, crossing one leg over the other, and leaning her elbows on her knee. "Stay away from the Upper Stands. Bunch of uptight assholes up there. If you need any ammo, tell Arturo that Blue sent you, he'll give you a discount and his merch is top-notch. And if you want to buy from Myrna, buy from her robot, just cos it'll piss her off. Hypocritical bitch."

"You don't like it here?" he says.

She takes a deep drag on her cigarette, blowing out smoke that glows silver in the shadows. "It's fine if you're the sort of stuck-up, bigoted asshole who can't tell the difference between a feral and a ghoul. There are plenty of good people, though. You on your way up to Bunker Hill?"

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe."

She looks back over her shoulder. "Think about dropping into Goodneighbor on your way past. Those guys know how to party. Just, uh... make sure you approach with an open mind and a solid hangover cure."

"Thanks," he says.

She shivers, stands, and grinds her cigarette under her boot. "Unless you fancy sleeping in the open, go back in there. Talk to Vadim, he'll give you a discount if you say I sent you."

"Blue," he says. "Right?"

"Yeah," she says, and winks at him. "Well remembered. Good luck, man. See you around, maybe."

The narrow escape has caused a cold sweat to break out on his already cold brow.

A few steps away, she stops and turns around. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" he asks.

She tilts her head to one side, a little questioning gesture he's seen her use on a couple of people aboard the Prydwen. Ingram, for example. "How reckless are you feeling?"

His heart starts to beat faster. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she says, "that I'm feeling a beer and a shot of Bobrov's Finest reckless, so I'm thinking about inviting you to my place. Think you're reckless enough to join me?"

She wants what he wants. She doesn't recognise him at all. And the floodlights are shining straight onto her shirt, illuminating the fact that she's wearing no bra underneath it.

It's making him feel pretty fucking reckless.

"I probably have some snack cakes lying around too," she says. "If that sweetens the deal."

He drops the cigarette, most of which he'd forgotten to smoke, and crushes it beneath his boot. It's a risk. A huge risk. But that shirt, and that voice, and that sparkle in her eye are all combining to make it a risk he's willing to take.

He gets to his feet, and slings the pack over his shoulder. "Sure," he says.

He follows her out into and through the marketplace, which is far brighter than it had seemed earlier. Fortunately, she keeps ahead of him by a few steps, so it's not too difficult a job to keep his face in shadow. Nobody pays him any mind. He's invisible in the crowd. It's liberating. He's even risking a look around the marketplace, at the vendors hawking their wares, when he realises she's stopped.

Right next to a set of T60 power armor.

Danse.

For a long moment, he's frozen to the spot. His mouth dries, and his heart tries its best to burst out of his chest.

But the suit doesn't move, or talk, or otherwise reveal itself to contain the Paladin. It's docked in a power armor station, even. And it may be a T60, but it bears the logo of the Minutemen. He frowns, annoyed. In a place like Diamond City she should be representing the Brotherhood, not the local militia. He'll have to talk to her about that later.

Right now he has a more pressing problem. He's just been hit by a realisation, one that somehow hadn't occurred to him outside the Dugout Inn, or on the walk between there and here.

What do most houses have, even in this backwater area? Lighting, and plenty of it. She'll probably be less understanding of his need for a carefully chosen seating position in her own home. He's wondering if he has time to back away and make an excuse, or maybe not even bother to make an excuse, just disappear into an alleyway and hope she doesn't try to find him.

Blissfully unaware of his dilemma, she unlocks the door and elbows it open. She reaches out a hand to flip on a switch.

The lights flare on. There's a loud bang. They go out again.

"Oh," she says. "The fuse has gone again."

She stands in the doorway and scratches her ear, before disappearing into the darkness beyond, her presence disclosed only by a few muffled bangs and muttered curses that follow.

"Okay," she says, returning to the doorway after a short while. "I don't have a spare fuse, and I don't know about you, but I can't be bothered to check with Myrna's bot. All I've got is this."

There's a small clicking sound, a faint buzz, and a bright green light shines out from the Pip-Boy she wears on her wrist.

"It'll have to do," she says. "Come on in."

He does so, and closes the door behind him. He watches the light as it bobs through the room, and stops a few meters away. His eyes adjust, very slowly. He can only make out a few shapes in the low light, given an eerie hue by the green torch. It's uncomfortably like the glow of the hideously mutated ferals the locals call Glowing Ones.

Her voice comes from behind him, all of a sudden. "Not afraid of the dark, are you?"

His sudden intake of breath seems to make her laugh, but she takes his hands and leads him forwards, turning him around and backing him up until his calves hit on a soft surface. For a moment, her chest is brushing up against his, and he's acutely aware of the fact that there are only a couple of pieces of fabric between her breasts and his skin.

"Sit," she says.

He does. She's led him to a couch, covered in a soft fabric, almost as cold as the bench he'd been sat on outside. It creaks alarmingly under his weight. He tries not to move too much.

For a few moments there are only faint sounds from the other side of the residence; scrapes and quiet taps. Then her shadow returns, a cold glass is placed in his hand, and he hears her unscrew the cap from a bottle. A single glug, as she starts to pour. The neck of the bottle scraping against the mouth of the glass.

He jumps in surprise as cold liquid spills over his fingers.

"Oops," she says.

The glass is removed from his hand and placed out of his reach. Then her fingers curl around his wrist, holding his hand up in the air. Her lips close around his fingers, one by one, sucking them clean of spilled alcohol with the faintest hint of tongue dragging over his fingertips.

He feels it, right through him, from the tips of his fingers to the tightness in his jeans.

Wow.

She lets go of his thumb with just a little bite of the nail, and an exhalation of breath that's halfway to a pleased little laugh. Then the warm tang of whiskey fills the air, and the glass finds its way to his hand again. He knocks it back in a single gulp, and places the glass to one side. She's somewhere beside him, or in front of him, but he can't see to grab her.

"Come here," he says.

She obliges. Her knees slide along the outside of his thighs, and she balances her weight over his legs. She rests her hands on the back of the couch, just either side of his head. The Pip-Boy has been left just around the corner, so only a faint, diffuse light falls on her. He can just make out the outline of her body. He strokes a hand up her back, running his fingers over her spine, until he can just touch them to her hair. It's pinned up in some complicated style, pins skewered through it, anchoring it to her head. He doesn't even know where to start.

"Want me to take it down?" she asks.

"Yes," he says.

Most members of the Brotherhood keep their hair in simple styles, or just short. He had little reason to look at them. Her style was more intricate, old-fashioned, with flashes of colour or other decorative elements that seemed to change every day.

Her weight shifts as she sits up straight, raising her arms over her head. Even in the green light, and having to imagine the expression on her face, she looks like a pin-up girl. He reaches out and undoes a couple of her shirt buttons, so he can run his fingers down between her breasts.

A bobby pin drops to the floor, with a gentle metallic sound. Then another. He counts twelve of them before she lowers her arms and leans forward again.

He reaches up and touches her hair, now loose around her shoulders. He strokes his hand down it, and it's long, very long, longer than he was expecting. It carries on past her shoulders, half-way down her back. It's long enough to be tangled in his fingers. Long enough to be wrapped right around his hand. More than long enough to use it to pull her face to his, not that he has to because she's already moving in for the kiss.

It seems she's only been kissing him for a moment before she's working at his belt, thrusting her tongue into his mouth as her hand enters his pants in a similar fashion. She strokes him, runs her fingers along his length, and rests her nose against his to ask him if he wants more.

"God, yes," he says.

"Okay," she says. "Just tell me what you like."

He does. So she sinks down between his knees, and takes him into her mouth.

Almost immediately, he's incapable of words, so he rakes both of his hands through her hair, just to say yes, that's good, more of that, please, more of that. She responds with her fingers, and her lips, and her tongue, taking him closer and closer to the edge with every movement. The only way this could possibly be better would be if he could see her, her lips tight around his cock, her bright eyes looking up at him. The thought is enough to tip him over. He tries to warn her but she doesn't hear, or she doesn't care. He screws his eyes closed and comes with an involuntary jerk of his hips and a shuddering breath that probably comes out more as a groan.

Untangling his fingers from her hair, he lets his hands fall beside him, and his head back onto the cushions of the couch. The combined warmth of the whiskey and the release spreads through all of him, even starting to warm his toes, cold as they are in his boots. He feels a measure of happiness he hasn't felt for months. It's _exactly_ what he needed.

And it's not even nine o'clock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags and rating updated, be warned.

She gets up and sits next to him, her knee brushing easily against his. She unscrews the cap and pours out another couple of shots from the bottle of whiskey. The glass being placed in his hand isn't such a surprise this time. Perhaps his eyes are adjusting. Sat beside him, now, a little more light falls on her. He still can't quite make out the details of her face, which in one way is a shame. In another... well, if he can't see her, he can almost pretend it's not her.

Not that he really wants to. Not specifically, anyway.

"No power, no heater," she says. "So how about you warm me up a little."

It is almost like she's another person, though. After the muted hostility of their first few meetings, she'd settled down. She had developed into a valuable member of the team, a dutiful and obedient Knight. One that never drew attention. Obviously her superior took the lead in briefings, but even her reports were blandly written, hardly worth reading. The rare times he did see her, she'd be sitting in the corner of the mess hall, reading a book alone, or talking quietly to Paladin Danse. She never drew attention to herself, as though she preferred to remain unknown.

Certainly not as assertive as this.

"Alright," he says. "Come here."

Not that he hadn't noticed her at all, of course. It was his job. He had to know everyone, he had to know he could trust them. But as he strokes his hands up her thighs, he wonders how he hadn't noticed how long and lithe her legs were. As he slides his fingers around her waist, he wonders how he hadn't realised how elegant and curving her body was. And as she leans back in for a kiss, he knows that he wouldn't have known how soft her lips were. He just wonders why he'd never even imagined it before.

But, he supposes, those aren't the measures of a soldier. Those are the measures of a civilian.

He wonders how he might be measuring up.

He undoes the remaining buttons on her shirt, and slides it off one shoulder. Warming her up by removing her clothes does seem illogical, but then she takes his hand and presses it to her breast and he momentarily forgets what logic is.

She pulls his shirt over his head, carelessly discarding it, dislodging the knitted hat while she does so. His head feels strangely cold. She runs her hands over his chest, and seems to be having a similar problem with logic.

"God," she says, her fingers tracing patterns over his abdomen. "I have been wanting this for a long time. "

One of his hands comes to rest on her hip, just where it begins to curve into her waist. The other strokes up the outside of her arm as she continues to run her fingers over his skin. It's as though she's trying to map out his body by touch. Maybe she's disappointed that she can't see, too.

As she kisses him, her fingernails scratch through the coarse hair on his chest, up his neck, and toward his face.

It's paranoia, perhaps, but he's afraid she might feel the scar on his cheek and know that it's him. So he catches her wrists in his hands, one and then the other, and makes her turn around. She settles back against him, her shoulder under his chin, with a sigh that is unmistakeably appreciative.

Perfect.

Holding onto her wrists with one hand, he slides the other down her front, right from her neck, over a breast, over her soft stomach, all the way down into her pants. She's so achingly close to him, murmuring gently, rolling her hips toward his exploring fingers. They stay like that for a while, long enough for him to start to feel a tightness in his jeans again. But it doesn't seem to be going anywhere.

He still feels a little irritated when she pulls away.

"I think we need more room to manoeuvre," she says, somewhat breathlessly, and takes his hand. "Come on. Over here. There's no handrail, so try not to fall down and break your neck."

Her footsteps are fast and sure, but he can't quite see the steps, nor does the lack of a handrail inspire him with much confidence. But he follows her up. The green glow of the Pip-Boy doesn't reach up this far, but there is a soft glow coming in from outside the shack. The floodlights, maybe, or one of the market vendors' neon signs, filtered through a crack in the wall.

There must be enough light for her to see him staring around, because she laughs.

"Don't just stand there," she says. "Get over here."

It's a bed, with a mattress, and springs, and as he touches his hand to it for balance he can feel soft fabric. Actual sheets. It's certainly wider than his bunk on the Prydwen. It's as wide as two of them, in fact, and down the middle of the bed runs a seam that suggests that that is exactly what it is.

Almost luxurious.

He takes the opportunity to pull her shirt off completely, and to slide her pants down her legs. He lowers himself onto his elbows over her, hips flush against hers. He feels a leg hook around the back of one thigh, and a hand in his back pocket, pulling him close. He could just re-open his fly, slide right into her. It's very tempting, and he knows she's ready for it. But both kinds of grip loosen, and then there's a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him away.

Not away, away. Downwards away.

Alright.

He lingers over her breasts, lavishing attention on them until he feels the hand on his shoulder again.

How very demanding.

But alright.

A very patient and very stoned girl in Rivet City had taught him everything he knew about going down on a woman, right down to a five-point action plan.

'Every girl's different,' she'd said. 'And trust me, I've had a lot of them, so I know. BUT. If they start makin' this noise, whatever you're doin' do more of it.'

The Knight is making that noise. No. He corrects himself. Blue is making that noise. She is moaning, arm thrown over her face, back arching off the bed. After a pleasingly short while, she lets out a shaky cry that on the Prydwen would have half the crew up and looking for the murderer.

He allows himself a satisfied grin.

The night proceeds in a suitably depraved fashion, with periods of high activity, as it were, punctuated by periods of restfulness. He almost falls asleep at one point, but forces himself to stay awake. He can't afford to let down his guard. Not now. But it's not like there's nothing to keep him occupied.

What surprises him the most is how comfortable it feels. With the exception of the girl from Rivet City, mostly helped by her frequent jet breaks, his previous encounters had been more... awkward. He'd assumed it was due to unfamiliarity. But he knows just as little about the Knight as he had any of them, perhaps less. Yet it still feels like they know each other already.

He... tries not to think too hard about that. They talk, sharing a can of water, and later while sharing another whiskey, but she singularly fails to reveal any details about her life, his every question met with deft evasion. The most he can get her to admit is that she's some kind of mercenary.

Eventually she just tells him to stop asking questions. He does. There are better things to be doing, after all.

Six o'clock sees her on all fours in front of him, one hand clutching the bedframe, her hair spilling all around her head. She keeps tossing it aside to look back at him, and as hot as that is, there's a beam of sunlight making its way between two sheets of corrugated iron and shining directly on his face. If she sees him now, there really will be hell to pay.

He stops what he's doing, difficult as that is. "Up," he says.

She seems disappointed, but pushes herself up and leans back against him. It's just like before, except this time his cock is deep within her. But she still keeps trying to look at him. So he takes her hair in his hand, and pulls her head back, gently, so she can't.

She _growls_.

"Harder," she says, gasping.

Alright.

He tightens his fingers, pulling a little harder at her hair. She starts to move her hips again, erratic, muttering. He wraps his arm around her waist to keep her steady.

"More," she says, faintly.

It must hurt, but barely a moment later her body becomes rigid, and her mouth falls open into a soundless cry. She tightens around him with every wave that rolls through her. Her head falls back onto his shoulder, her cheek hot against his neck.

"Fuck," she says.

But he's not done yet. So he pushes her forward again, and continues to thrust into her, pulling her thighs back sharply against his. She groans, her fingers moving to clutch at the bedsheets instead, and pushes back hard against him. Overtaken by it all, he only just manages to withdraw in time, leaning in to come down her back in a few hard spurts.

She collapses down onto the bed, face first. She reaches out into a box on the floor, digs out a rag, and tosses it back at him.

"Do me a favor, huh?" she says.

He does. Then he sits back on his haunches for a moment. She's face down on the bed, spread out before him, her back rising and falling rhythmically with her breath, almost laughing.

Without even looking at him, she pats the mattress beside her.

He pitches forward onto a pillow, being careful to press his right cheek into it. He only closes his eyes for a second, just while he regains his breath, but when he opens them again they have the unmistakeable heaviness of sleep in them, and the quality of light is entirely different. He's still in the same position; face down, cheek pressed into the pillow. So maybe he didn't turn over. He's still okay. His secret is safe.

Except... he still has to get out without her recognising him. And now it's daytime.

She appears beside the bed, fully-clothed now. "Gotta get back to the day job," she says. "Let yourself out when you're ready, just leave the key under the mat, or somewhere on the power armor."

"Aren't you worried..." he starts, confused.

"That you'll rob the place?" She tilts her head, and smiles. "Nah. Nothing to take. Plus, the wrath of the entire Commonwealth will come down upon you if you try."

He's not entirely sure how to take that.

She leans forward, and pats his backside. "Reckless you may be, but I don't think you're that stupid. See you around, maybe."

She disappears down the steps, and the door opens and closes with a bang and a blast of cold air that washes over him a few seconds later.

Then a couple of words she said come back to him in a similar chilling fashion.

Day job.

Shit.

He has to get to the rendezvous point.

He forces himself upright, swinging his feet off the bed and onto the wooden floor. He climbs down the steps and wanders the lower floor, finding the rest of his clothes. As he walks, he notices all kinds of parts of him that are tired, sore, or just plain sensitive.

He allows himself another satisfied grin. This is _exactly_ what he needed.

Now that it's light, he can see a bit more of the residence. Just some bits of dusty furniture, the couch against a side wall, with a low bookcase beside it. There's a rusty basin on the floor in the corner, with a bit of water and some soap that's already wet. He cleans up, dresses himself, and checks that everything in his pack is still there. Not that he has to worry about her, it's just... habit.

Maybe that's not such a good sign.

He takes one last look around the room. Something on the floor by the couch catches his eye. It's a bobby pin, but not a normal one, one you could use to open a lock. It's silver, with a set of three green beads attached to the end of it.

He picks it up, and puts it in his pocket.

After wrapping the scarf high around his neck, and pulling the hat low over his eyes, he steps out into Diamond City and makes his way toward the gates. The small girl from the day before gives him a curious look as he walks past. He ignores her.

As the rest of the City does him.

Just an anonymous drifter, in town for a few hours.

_Perfect._


	4. Chapter 4

He arrives back on board the Prydwen before the Knight does; the benefit of having a vertibird at his disposal. He returns to his quarters, trims his beard down to a shorter length, and waits.

No. He doesn't wait. He goes about his daily business. As per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not at all.

Of course, that daily business apparently became far more urgent the moment he stepped out onto the flight deck, and has to be dealt with right now. All of it. He struggles through folders, files, and briefings, not getting a single moment to himself until late in the night.

Then early the next day, it starts all over again, his alarm blaring.

A far less pleasant way to experience six o'clock in the morning.

Just before twelve, Paladin Danse's team returns. The mission was a success, all items retrieved undamaged, and an additional location marked for sweep and retrieve. The debriefing session is due to occur at three o'clock. He tends to hold these sessions in his quarters, mainly for confidentiality, but mostly for comfort. At 2:55, he enters his quarters, looks longingly at his bunk, and sits at the table instead.

A heavy knock at the door jars him awake.

"Come in," he says, blinking sleep from his eyes.

"Elder," says Danse, entering the room, and standing in the doorway.

Always so damnably polite. Does he have to tell everyone to do everything? Can they not just take some initiative? He gestures irritably at the chair opposite, and runs his hand through his hair.

Danse summarizes the mission, his account mercifully brief. Still, he finds himself drifting off during a slightly long description of an encounter with a deathclaw, and flips through the report to try to keep himself awake.

In doing so, he notices something.

Neither the report nor the Paladin mention the Knight's absence.

But he's reckless, not stupid. He doesn't ask about it.

Not exactly.

"The Knight," he says, when the Paladin has finished talking. "Tell me about her."

"Sir?" says the Paladin. "I have submitted a number of personnel reports..."

"Off the record," he says. "Your personal opinion."

Danse looks somewhat flustered, an unusual expression for any Paladin, but particularly this one.

It is an unusual question, though, so he takes pity. "Start with the professional, then," he says.

"Well," says the Paladin, evidently considering his words. "Initially, she was reluctant to take orders."

A vision of her obediently dropping to her knees comes unbidden into his mind, far more vivid than the green-tinged shadows of reality.

"But now she's realised the importance of our mission, and come to truly embrace our values..."

Her arms, snaking around his back, pulling him closer to her, pulling him in deeper with a whisper of encouragement.

"... I feel she really has the potential to be with the best of us."

He nods, before the words sink in. _With_ the best of us?

"What?" he says, perhaps a little sharply.

The Paladin blinks, slowly. "She has the potential to be one of the best of us," he repeats.

He shakes his head. He's just tired, and mishearing things.

"Personally," continues Danse, warming to his theme, "she is very pleasant. She gets on equally well with both civilians and soldiers."

He hopes that's not entirely true. "Does she have any... friends?"

Danse clears his throat. "I know of one," he says. "The Knight was travelling the Commonwealth and heard of a raider bar right in the city, with fighters and such. We, uh, she, the Knight that is, shut it down. Cait was... working there. They have become quite close friends. She's... Irish."

He would ask what this Cait looks like, but he thinks he already knows. Red hair, and a dark corset. The accent was unmistakeable. "You've met her?" he asks.

Danse coughs again. Perhaps he is becoming ill, and should report to Cade. "The Knight visits her sometimes. Just for a drink. Or two. As friends."

Perhaps a drink would help him concentrate. He has a lot more briefings to survive before he can finally sink into his bunk and sleep. After he suggests it, the Paladin accompanies him through the ship, on his way to engineering. And there she is, of course, in the mess hall, drinking a can of water, her hair pinned up tight.

He wonders if she uses twelve pins every time.

"Elder," she says, with a slight nod. "Paladin."

"Knight," says the Paladin.

So far, so formal. He nods, too.

"I was looking for you, actually," she says, turning to the Paladin. "I was hoping you'd help me with my rifle. I'm not sure the capacitor is functioning correctly. It's not achieving expected levels of armor penetration."

Danse frowns. "I've already spent quite a lot of time helping you with your weapon. You should know how to service your weapon on your own by now."

He begins to feel a little faint.

"Oh," she says, seeming a little disappointed. But she brightens up. "I have a pack of snack cakes in my bag. If that sweetens the deal?"

The Paladin laughs, briefly, before coughing once again. "Perhaps later," he says. "My power armor requires some attention." Then he walks away, with something that might be a little shake of his head.

Left behind, she smiles, the reserved smile of a junior officer faced with their leader.

He wracks his brain for a topic of conversation. "You prefer to use a laser rifle?"

Her smile remains placid. "Yes, sir," she says.

He curses himself for the banality of the question. But then he remembers the conversation she was having with her friend.

"Have you ever considered other weapons?" he asks. "A shotgun, for example."

"Yes, sir," she says. "But in close quarters, likely an emergency situation, it can be difficult to reload at speed. And Brotherhood uniform does not contain many places to hide a switchblade."

"No," he says. "I suppose not."

She nods. She's wearing Brotherhood uniform now, a standard orange flight suit. It hugs her waist and hips and legs in a way he had never quite noticed before.

"If you'll excuse me, Elder," she says, after a moment.

"Of course," he says, his voice sounding faintly strangled. It probably becomes more so when she turns and bends over to pick her pack up from the floor, so it's a good job that she walks away into engineering without a backward glance.

He rubs his hand over his face, and beats a retreat to his quarters.

Over the next week or two, the Commonwealth is beset by a series of winter storms. Most of the active squads are confined on the Prydwen until a break in the weather will let them return out into the field. In the meantime, the Prydwen is bustling, with tempers fraying and emotions running high.

Fortunately, he doesn't see much of her.

Not that that helps very much.

Every time the lights turn low, he feels her hands on him. He hears her satisfied sighs and her low laughs. When he closes his eyes, it just becomes more lurid, the memories added to by an imagination that has suddenly become far more active than ever before.

This is decidedly not what he needed. If his hand wasn't cutting it before, it certainly isn't now. Knowing that she's just across the hall, or in engineering, or partly clad in her bunk. Perhaps not clad at all in her bunk. Any time she's on the ship, she's close enough to approach and ask to join him in his quarters. Or just to find a quiet spot where he can bury himself in her once again.

Except of course he can't. She's a member of his crew. That's why he went to Diamond City in the first place.

_Fuck_.

He steels himself. He survived for literally months without sexual contact, and he can do it again. He just has to wait out the urges. Soon, she'll be out in the field again. Out of his reach. Out of his mind.

Not quite yet, though.

Fifteen days into the storms, with the Prydwen lurching queasily in her moorings, he steps onto the walkway above engineering. There they are, just below. The Paladin is in his power armor, and seems to be testing out a modification that's been made to the arm of it. The Knight is in her overly-distracting flight suit, sitting on a packing case. She's digging a screwdriver into a circuit board, perhaps attempting to reclaim some materials. Something springs off the board, causing her to rear back and screw her eyes shut. And whatever it is must land on her head, because the Paladin reaches out to remove it for her. A rough edge on his metal fingers snags in her hair, pulling loose a curl.

"Ow," she says, slapping at his hand. "Careful, Danse. You know how sensitive my scalp is."

She and the Paladin stare at each other for a moment.

Arthur turns away before the flush reaches his cheeks.

It's no good, he decides. He'll have to go to ground again. Somewhere else, this time. Somewhere less high profile than the capital, but just as populous. An itinerant population who wouldn't know or care who he was, or be there long enough to remember him.

He thinks he might know just the place.


	5. Chapter 5

What with the backlog of missions due to the storms, he has to wait a few days before he feels comfortable commissioning a vertibird. Paladin Danse's team was one of the first to head out into the Commonwealth, on a mission way down to the west.

Almost the opposite direction to the one in which he would be heading.

The drop-off and rendezvous point is just to the north of the river, by an old science museum. It had been a recent target for sweep-and-retrieve, so he knows the place is both good for a landing and relatively clear of enemies.

With the sun at his back, he walks along the river. The creaks and groans of the broken city echo around, giving an unsettling atmosphere, but it feels strangely peaceful. He wonders if this is how it is for her, as a junior officer, as a mercenary. To be able to walk the city streets, free from care, free from decisions.

He also wonders what it was like before even that.

Barely a few hundred feet along the river, he stops dead. He sees a familiar shape, nestled in the shade of a broken overpass, bright blue and cylindrical. A Pulowski Preservation shelter, right where he needs it. Again.

It's almost as though this is meant to be.

He steps in and undergoes the transformation, rolling his coat into the pack once again. He's obtained a few different items of clothing from Teagan this time, but retained the same knitted hat and scarf. They seemed to have brought him luck. Perhaps they would again.

He steps back out into the evening air, and looks up to his left. The monument stands tall behind the broken buildings of Charlestown, glowing creamy-yellow in the fading sunlight. It's by no means as tall or impressive as the Washington Monument, back in the Capital Wasteland, but it still stands, marking the site of the ancient battle that he'd read so much about.

Bunker Hill.

Apparently it's still possible to climb the obelisk. The view of the Commonwealth might be better than through the filthy glass windows of the Prydwen, although to be able to see even more of the devastation seems not to be that appealing a thought.

Perhaps she climbed it, before the war. Perhaps one day he'll find a way to ask her what it was like.

Before he moves on, he looks back toward the river. The sun burns into his eyes, and sparkles off the water. And that reminds him. From the bottom of the pack, he retrieves a set of sunglasses, and puts them on.

Perfect.

He walks up the narrow street toward the monument, following a curious trail of red bricks that though fragmentary, seems to lead directly toward it. In front of the monument itself is a statue; a soldier in a long coat. It looks a lot like the Knight's Minutemen associates, except for the sword. Although, in his opinion, their laser muskets are just as embarrassingly old-fashioned.

A blonde woman with a large shotgun appears in front of the statue, and interrupts his thoughts. "Caravan or raider," she demands, readying the weapon.

"Neither," he says. "Just here to do some trading."

It wasn't strictly true, but it would do for now. He holds out his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Fine," she says, and lowers the gun. "Make sure you spend all your caps and don't cause any trouble. We got a couple of people around here who can deal with that kind of thing."

He's done a little more research this time, so he knows where he's going. To the left around the market, and down to the back of the encampment. A small bar, owned by a man named Savoldi. On his way through, he passes a caravan worker in a blue coat and dark shades, leaning against the side of a small shack.

"Nice glasses," says the worker, lighting a cigarette.

He wonders what that's supposed to mean.

Unfortunately, the bar is a little less impressive than he was hoping, and far less busy. The traders are still working their stalls, and the caravan workers that do sit down for a beer are gone almost before he's seen them. This does not seem promising. The way she'd put it in Diamond City had made it seem like a bustling center of commerce.

But, he supposes, it is. There is a lot of trade, and there are a lot of brahmin around, stacked high with crates and boxes. The workers are just now attaching the oil lamps that will light the roads for them. Shouts echo around the old buildings, along with the occasional crash as a box of mystery goods is dropped. There's a general hum of activity. But not one of people. Not idle civilians, at any rate.

Perhaps this is what he deserves. This is his lesson in humility. He can't just expect the Commonwealth to provide him with a lay, just because he needs one. No matter how desperately he needs one. He orders a beer, the bar owner demanding the caps before the bottle is placed before him, and considers his options. He knows this Savoldi has rooms. Perhaps he should get one, and just sit there. Alone. If nothing else, it would be a more peaceful night than on the Prydwen. No chance of having his sleep interrupted by the late arrival of a vertibird, or an urgent message.

But before that, he should have a look around. Enjoy the feel of having his boots on the ground, without a chance of being bothered. This is an ancient place, full of history. There must be more to learn about it.

He's looking back toward the monument, and the statue, when two women walk out of the marketplace and into the open. His stomach lurches.

It's the Knight, and her friend.

The situation has a strange sense of inevitability about it.

He turns slowly back to his beer, trying not to draw their attention by moving too suddenly. He ends up leaning one arm on the bar, his body at an awkward angle. He realises that the glasses allow him much more freedom to look around, and watches them approach.

The Knight is almost dancing around her friend, turning on her heels to walk backwards in front of her. "Let's just get a quick drink," she's saying.

The friend - Cait, he thinks Danse had said - rolls her eyes, but gives her a grin.

Then she catches sight of him.

"Don't look now," says Cait, catching the Knight by the arm. "But I think that's your little bearded friend from Diamond City."

The Knight starts to turn around, but stops herself; all he can see is a brief flash of cheek, and the edge of an ear beneath her hair, which is pinned tightly, as always.

Well. Not quite always.

If she speaks, it's pitched too low for him to hear. But he can hear her friend. "Go on," says Cait. "I'm not fussed."

The Knight says something else.

"Course," says Cait, with a smile. "But next time bring your tin can. I liked _him_." She reaches out and touches the Knight's shoulder, a friendly gesture.

He looks back down at his beer, amused at how he can change his view in secret. For all they know, he's staring at a point at the back of the bar.

He's not sure what she meant by tin can, though. Perhaps the robot. She'd brought a Mr Handy onto the Prydwen, once, but it had proved so much of a distraction for the squires and junior officers alike that he'd had to ask her not to bring it back.

That must be it.

After a few moments, she sits down next to him. The bar owner drops a beer in front of her immediately, and doesn't wait for caps.

"Well," she says, after a little while. "This is a coincidence."

"So it is," he replies.

"Meeting someone?" she asks.

"No," he says.

She nods, and tips the bottle into her mouth, her lips closing gently around the top of it.

He suppresses a shiver. He tells himself it's just the cold.

"What's with the glasses?" she asks.

"It was sunny," he says.

He curses himself for his inability to make conversation.

"I suppose so," she says. "Just seems a shame to hide those eyes."

His heart beats faster, and his fingers clutch tighter around his drink. This is some sort of joke, it must be. He can't be this lucky twice.

"Let's cut to the chase," she says. "In fact, let's cut the chase altogether and get straight to the podium celebrations. I guess you have a room upstairs, but they're a little... drafty for my liking. Across the other side of the hill I have a little storage shed. It's not exactly luxurious, but as a man of the road I'm sure you've seen worse."

She's looking directly at him, with that tilt of her head. She's wrapped up in more layers than last time, with a scarf of her own covering her neck, but her eyes are bright and he feels just about as reckless as he ever has.

"Sure," he says, twisting off the seat, and slinging his pack over his shoulder.

It is just a storage shed, with packing cases piled almost to the ceiling and only a small amount of floor left bare. When she closes the door, he can hardly see a thing, only a glimmer of yellow light creeping in between the slats of the walls.

"When I said not exactly luxurious," she says. "I really meant it."

He catches her by the waist, pushes her back against the wall and kisses her, hard.

"Oh," she says, her breath hot against his cheek. "Did someone miss me?"

It's hard to explain how that's both true and not true. You're supposed to miss someone when they're not there, not when they're right there and you can't do a fucking thing about it.

"Yes," he says.

"What did you miss most?" she says, pressing her hips against him, her voice soft and teasing. "Tell me."

Lying in his bunk for the last eighteen nights, the first thing he thought of was always her hands. Stroking all over him, pulling him closer, directing him where she wanted him. During the day, it was the same. The first thing he'd notice was her hands holding a book, lifting a glass to her mouth, deftly handling a screwdriver. He'd look at them, and want her to put whatever it was down, and touch him instead.

"Your hands," he says.

She strokes her fingers over his ears, down his neck, down his chest, and over the front of his jeans.

He can't stop himself from leaning into the touch.

"Good answer," she says, as she unbuttons his fly and slides her hand inside. "Anything else?"

After that, for his imagination, it was normally her lips. On his mouth, on his skin, around his cock. On the Prydwen, every time he saw her talking, eating, drinking. She always smiled so mildly and politely it was hard to imagine them doing or saying the filthy things she had in Diamond City.

Not impossible, though. He had the memories of her voice, and of her touch. Too many of them.

"Your lips," he says.

She pulls him into a kiss, a deep one, and he thinks he might have to add her tongue to the list. But when she breaks away and asks the question again, her own breath coming faster, he knows the answer he wants to give.

From the moment he left Diamond City, perhaps even from leaving the bed, he couldn't shake the memory of her hair. Spilling over her back, tickling against his skin, or bunched up in his hand while she shuddered under his touch. And on the Prydwen, it was always so carefully pinned away, kept so tightly under control he couldn't imagine what it looked like loose. He'd tried - he really had tried - but it never seemed real enough.

"Your hair," he says.

She laughs. "Well," she says. "You can wait for that."

Any momentary disappointment is gone in a heartbeat, when she closes her fingers around his cock.

A voice in the back of his head tells him to hold on, to be polite. He's barely even touched her, only a hand on her waist, not even venturing inside her clothes. But after how the last time went, he's sure there will be plenty of time to return the favor.

"Harder," he says, with a groan.

She obliges.

He fucks himself into her hand until he sees stars, until the tension that had been coiling within him since he returned to the Prydwen releases like a dam bursting. In that moment he doesn't know or care what happens to him, he just wants to be close to her, like this, whenever he can.

Except he can't. Because this is all a lie.

"I'll get a cloth," she says, with a low laugh, one he's gotten far too used to.

He staggers backwards, finds a crate to sit on and catch his breath. He can fix this, it's fine. He can leave, make his excuses, make his apologies, get a room at Savoldi's, spend the night alone and just try his hardest to get over her.

She strokes a hand over his shoulder, and sits on his knees.

Well, he thinks. It'd be rude to leave now. Maybe in a little while.

Her weight shifts, just a little, and he hears a familiar sound. It's a metallic noise, like a tiny screw hitting a wooden floor.

Or a bobby pin.

Maybe tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags updated. heh.

With the sound of the fourth pin echoing around the shed, he places his hands on her hips. Four more, and he's reaching up to the back of her neck in anticipation. By the time she makes it to twelve, he's got one hand in her hair and one in her pants and he's not entirely sure which one she's enjoying the most.

She still shakes him off before it really goes anywhere.

"Listen," she says, with a deep intake of breath. "We can't stay sat here all night. How about you go get us some drinks, and I'll go source a bedroll or two. Tell Savoldi to stick it on my tab, he owes me still."

"Sure," he says, a little dazed.

She gives him a quick squeeze of the arm before walking away toward the marketplace, her boots heavy on the hard-packed dirt. After a few moments, he retrieves his glasses from the floor of the shed, and puts them back on.

"What'll it be?" says Savoldi, when he reaches the bar.

He hadn't thought about that. "Whiskey, I guess."

"Fifty caps," says Savoldi, picking up a cloth, and rubbing it ineffectually across the counter.

"She has a tab," he says.

Savoldi looks at him, his cloth not stopping moving over the filthy counter. "That so," he says. "And who might 'she' be?"

He racks his brain to remember. "Uh," he says. "Blue?"

Now Savoldi stops cleaning the bar, leaning heavily on it instead, glaring at him. "You tryin' to play games with me? I don't know any Blue. Cough up, kid, before I get security over."

He stands, unsure what to do, as Savoldi mutters _Blue, what kind of a name is that, anyway_.

Just to the side of the bar, a caravan worker in a blue coat and a pair of dark glasses lights up a cigarette. He seems faintly familiar. "Charmer," he says over his shoulder, tossing the spent match out onto the dirt.

"What?" says Arthur.

Savoldi transfers his glare to the worker. "You sure? This guy? Doesn't seem her type, if you know what I'm sayin'."

The caravan worker shrugs, and turns away.

Reaching under the counter, Savoldi pulls out a bottle that's mostly full. "Okay," he says, "here you go. You need cups too?"

Arthur stares dumbly at him. Type?

Savoldi rolls his eyes, and puts a couple of enamel mugs on the counter with a crack. "Here. Take 'em or leave 'em."

After a moment of not understanding what's just happened, he picks them up, and makes to return to the storage shed.

But before he goes, he can't resist.

"Charmer?" he asks.

The caravan worker grins. "Well, she is, isn't she?"

Arthur considers the statement for a moment. It's true in some contexts, at least.

He arrives back at the storage shed before she does. In fact, he spends a good fifteen minutes waiting for her, sat on the ground outside, feeling a little foolish. He's just about to open the bottle and start drinking alone when steady footsteps return, and she steps out of the shade.

She does indeed have a couple of bedrolls under her arm.

"Cups too?" she says. "Good work."

He starts to get up, but she waves her free hand at him. "Don't move," she says. "I need a cigarette. Pour out, will you?"

He does, and after tossing the bedrolls into the shed she sits beside him, her knee brushing easily against his. She lights up, hands him the packet and the lighter.

It's not until after he's lit and smoked most of the cigarette that he realises she's sat on his right hand side. There's a string of lamps hung between the marketplace building and the scrappy walls of the settlement, and it's shining yellow light right on his face.

She doesn't seem to have noticed so far.

The glasses are obviously doing the trick.

"So," he says. "Charmer? What happened to Blue?"

"You know how it is," she says, with a smile. "I'm Blue to some people. Charmer to some."

_Knight to a few, as well_ , he thinks. But she doesn't mention it, and he doesn't correct her.

"I'm sure there are some less-than-complimentary names out there for me too," she continues. "Obviously raiders like a good old-fashioned _Bitch_. And I don't know if deathclaws have a language, as such, but they never seem very happy to see me, either."

"Are they ever happy to see anyone?" he says.

She shrugs, and stubs out her cigarette. "What's in a name, anyway?" she asks. "Nobody uses my real name. Well. Nobody except for my tin can butler, and that's only because I can't work out how to program him not to."

"What about your friend?" he asks.

"My friend?" she says, with a confused tilt of the head.

"From earlier. In the marketplace."

She lets out a sound that's somewhere between a snort and a laugh. "Oh, Cait. My friend, Cait. She calls me whatever she damn well likes," she says. "Yeah, so. Anyway."

She gets to her feet and moves the bottle of whiskey inside the doorway. Then she holds out her hand until he takes it, and pulls him back into the darkened shed.

"So you're a mercenary," he says, unwinding the scarf from her neck.

"Yeah," she says, unwinding his, and unbuttoning his coat.

"What did you do before that?" he asks, pushing her jacket off her shoulders, and pulling her shirt over her head.

"The usual," she says, unbuttoning his jeans again, and pushing them down his legs. "Just your average upbringing in the Commonwealth."

"Where did you learn to fight?" he asks, stepping out of them, and helping her out of hers.

She backs him against the crates, and runs her hand over his head. He waits for her touch on the back of his neck, but instead, she grabs hold of his hair and pulls his head back, somewhat roughly.

"Stop asking questions," she says, "before you get an answer you don't like."

He decides to take her advice.

He just pisses her off a different way.

He's got a hand on her waist, and is turning them both around, trying to decide where to put her next. She's leaning against him and laughing, when he runs his other hand down her back, and over her ass.

He chances a small slap.

"Oh no you don't," she says, catching his hand. "I haven't done anything to deserve that."

"What's that got to do with it?" he asks.

There's a pause.

"Well, it's not fair, is it," she says. "One of us has been behaving _much_ more badly than the other. And _I'm_ the one that gets a slap?"

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Who walked into my town and unloaded himself into my mouth without even telling me his name?"

His mouth falls open. It was technically true, he just hadn't thought about it in such a crude manner. "I did," he says, "but..."

She delivers a slap to his ass that stings far more than it has a right to.

"Who tracked me down to a minor trading post and unloaded himself into my hand, still without telling me his name?"

"I... hang on..." he says.

A second slap lands, balancing the first, the sound almost ringing around the shed. The relief is... unexpected, and highly inappropriate. As is her laugh, quiet and breathy, as though she's trying to stifle it.

If anything else could convince him that she had no idea who he was, it was this. She _must_ just think he's some drifter, because if she had _any_ idea that she was doing this to an Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel? She'd be _mortified_.

That doesn't make it anything other than completely unacceptable.

"I didn't track you down at all," he says. "You..."

_...are supposed to be in the Glowing Sea._

He barely stops himself in time.

"I what?" she says.

"You knew I was on my way to Bunker Hill," he says, his heart racing as he corrects himself. "I told you in Diamond City."

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. That journey probably shouldn't take eighteen days.

"True," she says. "Okay. I take that second one back. That _part_ of the second one."

"And do you need to know my name that much?" he asks. She was just complaining about a name meaning nothing, and now she uses it against him?

"No, I was just saying that for effect. And," she says, leaning in from behind, her lips brushing against his ear, "you can unload anywhere you like with me, any time."

He clenches his fists, wishing that were true.

"But doesn't it feel unfair?" she continues, softly. "To be judged for something you haven't even done?"

It feels like she's trying to teach him some kind of lesson. And that is not what he's here for. Now he's annoyed, and he knows exactly where he's going to take her. He's going to put her on those packing crates and reduce her to a whimpering, babbling mess.

_Again_.

He turns, slings his arm around her waist before she can get away again, and lifts her off her feet. He dumps her on the edge of a crate, pressing himself in between her thighs until his chest meets hers.

"Oh," she says.

It's hard to hold himself back, because this is exactly how he imagined it on the Prydwen. The times when it all got a little too much, when he came so close to marching up to her and dragging her to the crates stacked up at the back of engineering. Or down in the airport buildings, perhaps, where all the pieces of Prime were sat in their crates. Wherever it was, fucking her fast and hard before someone arrived, not even caring if she reached her climax.

He has a lot more time to spare, now. Time to cup a breast in his hand, time to grip onto her hip to change her angle, time to reach up into her hair and give it a quick tug. That always elicits a gasp. The gasps are good; she makes the same sound when he presses his teeth into her neck, and it's hard to decide which he likes the best.

But now he's imagining that this is the Prydwen, despite the yellow light and scent of woodsmoke. He's pretending that the light is blue, and the scent is of oil and grease, and that when he's done he can adjust his clothes and go back about his business with nobody any the wiser.

That is the _opposite_ of what he needs. He's supposed to be getting this over with so he doesn't want do it again, not adding extra fuel to the flames.

He stops, trying to break the illusion.

"Don't stop," she says, faintly. "Please don't stop."

Forget the packing crates, he thinks. Forget them altogether.

Now it's the table in his quarters, and he's swept everything off it to throw her on there. Her head falls back, and she moans his name. With only a metal door between them and the rest of the crew, he puts a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

God _damnit_ , Arthur, he thinks. She's right here. Why do you have to complicate this? What more do you want?

Well. That's obvious. He wants to see it, too.

He dismisses the thought. That's not an option, right now.

But she is moaning against his hand, and digging her nails into his back, and as she shudders and comes around him, he thinks this will probably do.

  
Six o'clock sees her on her knees again, sucking the last from him. This time he does get a little of what he wants; while he's shaded by crates, there's just enough light coming through the cracks in the wall for him to see her looking up at him, her hand pulling back her hair, her lips parting to take him in, and her tongue when she darts it out, a mischievous look in her eyes.

Perhaps her tongue should go on the list for next time.

No. There won't be a next time. There _can't_ be.

She drops herself down beside him with a little laugh. And after a short while, he realises she's asleep. Her breathing is steady, her mouth open, and her hair's piled up beside her head. He'd reach out to touch it, but he might wake her. So instead, he puts on his clothes, picks up his pack, and makes to leave.

Just before he opens the door, something sparkles just inside the doorway. It's a bobby pin, caught in between two of the sheets of wood that make up the shed's floor. It's dark brown metal, with an oval stone at one end, the color of gold.

He picks it up, and puts it in his pocket.

When he shrugs on his coat and leaves the shelter for the rendezvous point, he feels oddly despondent. The weather isn't helping. The sun is hidden behind clouds, and there's a fine drizzle floating in the air.

Maybe that's a good sign, though. Maybe he is starting to get past it all.

Good.

He nods to himself, and quickens his step.


	7. Chapter 7

Returned to his quarters, standing in front of the mirror, he makes a decision.

Diamond City had been a huge risk. Bunker Hill had been an even greater one. As enjoyable as it had been - and he had to admit that it was  _very_ enjoyable - he was still enough of a tactician to recognize when the risk overtook the reward.

Never again.

Not in the Commonwealth, at any rate.

Thus resolved, he goes about his daily business. And this time he really does. The Institute remains a threat. Rogue synths are causing trouble all over the region, appearing in flashes of blue lightning, dealing death and destruction with relatively advanced laser pistols. They're no match for Brotherhood weaponry or skills, that's true, but it feels uncomfortably like they're not really trying. Perhaps they're testing the waters. Looking for weaknesses. Biding their time.

The Brotherhood of Steel must be ready for them.

This is enough to distract him until Paladin Danse's team returns, a few days later. Once again, their reports fail to mention their parting of ways. But the mission was a success, a resounding one at that, so once again he doesn't ask. 

It's not as difficult, this time. Even though she's on the Prydwen, even though he encounters her on a regular basis, it doesn't affect him the same way as it did before.

For a little while, anyway.

He's on his way to speak to Ingram, to discuss the conditions for starting work on Liberty Prime. And there they are. The Knight, and the Paladin, standing in front of a set of power armor, the logo smudged and smeared across the metal. She's turning her head from side to side, trying to look at her back. There's a smear of blue down it, fresh paint transferred from its rightful location.

She laughs, reaches for a cloth and throws it to the Paladin. "Do me a favor, huh?"

Arthur closes his eyes. And opens them again. He's fine. He even allows himself a satisfied smile, because when he closed his eyes, he didn't see her kneeling in front of him, her hand clutching at the sheets, her hair spilling over the pillow. He's not imagining the soft skin of her thighs under his fingertips, nor the slick warmth of...

_Fuck._

Now he is.

He clears his throat, and attempts to clear his mind. Instead of turning and retreating, as before, he walks on through engineering, his head held high.

Yes. Good.

This is fine.

  
The next few days pass by with no further... incidents. The items retrieved from the Glowing Sea - and there are a surprisingly large number of them, considering how little time they spent there - revealed leads that led to many more locations. That means more missions, and that means more briefings.

10 o'clock sees his fourth such briefing of the day. It's due to be Danse. A medical center up to the north apparently houses some extremely strong and valuable electromagnets, which may come in useful for... Arthur doesn't exactly know what. That's what Ingram was explaining in engineering the other day, and he wasn't exactly paying attention.

He starts to drift off into the daydream again.

Then there's a heavy knock at the door.

"Come in," he says, grateful for the interruption. He looks up, expecting to see the large, looming figure of the Paladin. When he sees the Knight there instead, his heart leaps into his throat.

She smiles, with her usual slight smile. "Elder," she says.

"I thought it would be beneficial for the Knight to see how these sessions are conducted," says Danse, as he ducks through the doorway after her.

Arthur nods, and gestures toward the table. She sits down, and pays him no more attention than a junior officer should. But he's uncomfortably aware that his bunk, scene of many a mental reenactment of their nights together, is _right there_.

And so are the stolen bobby pins, sat on his bedside table like a fucking prize.

Arthur curses himself and leaps to his feet. "Perhaps this isn't the best place," he says. "We need a little more room to... manoeuvre."

Before he's even finished speaking, he remembers the last time he heard those words.

"Certainly, Elder," says Danse. "Perhaps the mess hall?"

Arthur nods, not trusting his voice.

He doesn't look to see if she reacts. He doesn't dare.

Even in the mess hall, he can hardly concentrate. He forces himself to focus, summarizes the mission as quickly as he can. But the memories keep surfacing, unbidden and extremely distracting. He coughs, tries to get his mind back on the instructions he's trying to give.

He must cough one too many times.

"Would you like some water?" she says.

"Mm," he replies. "Thank you."

She stands, and walks away, and he very deliberately keeps his attention on Danse's face the whole time. In fact, he does it so well, he only knows she's returned when the first of three mugs hits the table. He steadies his as she pours water into it. The can taps and scrapes on the edge of it, an irritating noise.

He jumps almost out of his skin when the cold liquid spills over his hand.

"Oops," she says.

Quite by accident, he catches her eye, his breath quickening. He's always been taught to ignore a mishap, just move on, pretend it never happened. But now his eyes are fixed on hers, and his heart is back in his throat.

"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes trained on his. "My pouring was a little reckless, there."

Danse stands, pushing his chair over the metal floor with a loud and jarring sound.

"I'll get a cloth," he says, amiably.

That's what breaks her.

A look crosses her face, an expression that's not immediately identifiable. It seems like pain, to begin with, her lips pressed tight, her eyes screwed shut. Then her shoulders begin to shake, and he realises.

She's laughing.

_She knows_.

By the time Danse has turned his back, she's bent almost double over the table, trying to stifle her laughter with a hand pressed hard over her mouth.

"You..." he says, not able to finish the sentence.

She nods, lifting her eyes to his. They're glittering with amusement.

"When did you..." He can't even bring himself to finish the sentence.

"The cigarette," she says, pulling herself together. She mimes the action of lighting a fliplighter, bringing the flame in to an imaginary cigarette, right past her right cheek. "It's a reflex action, the kind of thing you forget, you know?"

"Bunker Hill," he says, closing his eyes. He let down his guard, let her sit on his wrong side. Foolish to think he'd get away with it for that long.

But why didn't she _say_ something?

When he opens his eyes, her eyes are narrowed, her brow crumpled. She's wincing. "Uh," she says. "Before then."

"What?!" he exclaims.

A Knight over the opposite side of the mess hall looks up from his noodles.

Arthur lowers his voice. "What?" he repeats, thinking frantically back. In Diamond City he only remembered smoking outside the Dugout Inn. _Before_ anything happened.

_Fuck_.

Why _didn't_ she say something?

"I wasn't sure," she says, leaning in close, lowering her voice to match his. "I thought that maybe I'd found myself a lookalike and I could, you know. Make do. But..."

Her voice trails away, and she looks over her shoulder to check on Danse.

"But what?" he hisses, seeing Danse returning.

She leans in even closer. "You called me Knight," she says. "Twice."

He closes his eyes again, his stomach now entirely replaced by a pit of shame.

"Arthur," she says, in little more than a whisper. "Sorry, I mean... ugh, I don't know what I mean. I'm not saying this to shame you, or embarrass you. I completely understand, and I'm fine with the whole thing, obviously. It's just something to look out for. You know, for future reference."

He stares into her eyes, transfixed with horror, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a dirty towel appears in between them.

"Here we are," says Danse, mopping up the spilled water. "Now, where were we?"

Danse wraps up the session quickly. Not for the first time, Arthur is grateful for the Paladin's efficient ways, and keenness to get out into the field. And he's extraordinarily glad that he'll be taking the Knight with him. Perhaps he can line up a few more missions for the team, he thinks, as he returns to his quarters. Keep her off the Prydwen for a little while, until his embarrassment fades.

Slamming the door of his room behind him, he leans back against it, trying to suppress a groan.

That might take a while.

And it's only then that her final words hit him.

_Future reference?_

What the hell was that supposed to mean?


	8. Chapter 8

Ingram's eyebrow is raised. Arthur's fairly sure that she just asked a question, but he'd drifted off mid-sentence. Again.

"I need a team to go fetch some fiber optics," she says, a little impatiently. "We've tapped out all the traders who'll come this far south, so we need to go fishing."

He frowns, his eyes tired from late nights, early mornings, and all the difficult days in between. "Agreed," he says.

"So," she says, as if prompting him. "Who can I have?"

He rubs his eyes. "Ingram," he says. "I trust you. Just pick someone."

There's a knock at the door.

"What now?" asks Arthur.

From the doorway, Proctor Quinlan coughs, politely. "We've received a message, Elder. From the General of the Minutemen."

Arthur frowns some more. "What does he want?"

"It's an invitation, of sorts," says Quinlan, holding the message loosely in his hand.

"An invitation?" says Arthur. "To what. For what?"

"Come on, Quinlan," says Ingram. "Don't drag it out, just read the damn thing."

Quinlan gives her a sharp look, but unfolds the paper. "To whom it may concern," he reads.

"Well, that's rude," says Ingram. "Not even bothering to use your name."

Quinlan sighs, but continues. "The General of the Minutemen cordially invites you to The Castle, formerly known as Fort Independence, for discussions relating to the future of the Commonwealth. Upon receipt of your acceptance of this invitation, further instructions regarding date and time will be transmitted."

He stops reading. Silence falls.

"Well," says Arthur. "You're my advisors. Advise me."

"We don't even know who he is," says Quinlan.

"Or she," replies Ingram, idly scratching at the arm of her power armor.

"But the message is legitimate?" says Arthur.

"I believe so," says Quinlan. "As vague as the wording is, I have no reason to mistrust the source."

Arthur shakes his head, doubtful. "Have you really made no progress in finding out who this General is? If they even exist?"

"No, sir," says Quinlan. "The Minutemen are not exactly forthcoming with information."

"What about that Garvey fella?" asks Ingram. "I liked him, when the Knight brought him on board. Knew one end of a weapon from another, which is more than most people around here."

It's the first time in at least a week that the Knight has been mentioned. During that time, Arthur had reclaimed his stomach from the shame that had engulfed it.

Or at least, he thought he had.

He swallows nervously.

"Well," says Quinlan, folding his arms. "He does seem fairly central to their operations, though I've still never seen him referred to as General."

Arthur takes the message from the Proctor's hand. Seeing it in letters... well, it doesn't help all that much. Still the same neutral, mildly-worded text.

Barely worth reading.

He has an odd feeling about it, but he's probably just tired. He dismisses the thought.

"I'll go," he says. "See what they want. It may be to do with the Institute. Perhaps they don't have the firepower to take it on themselves."

"Neither do we," says Ingram.

"You should take some backup," says Quinlan. "I believe Paladin Danse is available at the moment. He was due to go out again but his team is... incomplete."

This is the first Arthur has heard of it. "What do you mean, incomplete?"

"His... protégé is attending to a personal matter," says Quinlan. "Unfortunate, given the circumstances and her apparent ties to the Minutemen. We could have used her to verify the message. But I suppose that can't be helped."

  
So it is that two days later, Arthur finds himself walking over the damp, sandy ground that leads toward the Castle. Its grey walls are crumbling, partly with age, and partly due to a recent attack, judging by the sharp edges of the bullet-holes in the concrete and a number of dark scorch marks. Simple turrets whir noisily on the top of the walls, and despite it being the middle of the day, a spotlight swivels around to follow their approach.

A Minuteman steps out of the gate, his hand outstretched in greeting.

"Preston Garvey," he says, "Commonwealth Minutemen."

Crucially, thinks Arthur, not General of them.

They shake hands, in accordance with older customs. In response to Danse's armor-clad salute, the Minuteman touches his hat.

"Elder," says Garvey. "Paladin. Come on in."

Inside, the courtyard is as damp and grey as the exterior. In the center, a large radio antenna stretches up toward the sky. On the opposite side, two power armor stations and a workbench are crammed in tight under a low, shack-style roof, dark and sagging with moisture. Not very impressive at all, for something they call a castle.

No wonder they're looking for help against the Institute.

"It's not much right now," says Garvey, as if reading his mind, "but we're working on it. When the weather clears up we'll be able to get a lot more done. As it is, we're pretty much just watching concrete dry."

An awkward silence falls. No mention of a General. No mention of this future of the Commonwealth. Nothing. Just a fine drizzle that begins to condense in the air, and adds to the dismal scene.

"So," says Arthur, wracking his brain for something to talk about. "That's an interesting... weapon you have there. Hand-cranked?"

"Yes," says Garvey, suddenly more animated, holding it up and starting to talk about it.

There's a movement at the edge of Arthur's vision, beyond Danse's armored shoulder. A white shirt, bright against the damp grey concrete of the walls.

The Knight.

What the hell is _she_ doing here?

"True," Garvey is saying. "But with an extra crank before combat starts, the most dangerous target can be eliminated immediately, particularly from stealth."

"Oh," says Danse, dismissively. "Stealth. I see."

She's leaning in a doorway, about ten feet away. She smiles, broadly, reaches a hand up to her hair and pulls out a pin. She holds it out in front of her, and drops it in the dust.

Arthur forces his attention back to the conversation in front of him.

Danse huffs. "Perhaps," he's saying, "but during a combat situation, I can't imagine that it would be anything other than hazardous to have to stop after every single shot."

"It's no worse than a shotgun," says Garvey. "It's not like you have to fumble with ammo every time. And it's economical. Why use the same number of charges on a simple feral as you would something larger? That just seems like a waste, to me."

Danse has shifted on his feet, so Arthur has to lean a little to the side to see her again. When he does, she already has another pin in her hand. She shows it to him, turns her hand over, and uses her middle finger and thumb to flick it into the middle of the courtyard.

The pin bounces off Danse's shoulder and falls inside his armor with a series of tiny metallic clinks.

The Paladin turns, briefly distracted by the sound.

In the doorway, the Knight looks down, inspects her fingernails. A single curl from the side of her head unwinds, and snakes down over her shoulder.

Danse is too keen to get back to the conversation to notice her, or investigate further. Arthur, however, can feel his face reddening by the second.

"Let me show you," Garvey's saying, and Danse is following him over to the workbench.

Before he can persuade himself otherwise, Arthur crosses the courtyard to talk to her.

"What are you doing here?" he says. "You should be back on the Prydwen by now."

"Not out here," she says, backing through the doorway, into the walls.

He looks around, to see if anyone's watching. They're not; Garvey and Danse are deep in conversation. The Minuteman on radio duty has one hand pressed to his ear, and is transcribing something onto what Arthur assumes is a pad of paper. The others are looking out and away from the courtyard, rather than into it.

So he follows her.

"We need to talk," he says, his eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. The air inside the walls is both dusty and damp, the light tinged with blue. But he can see her. At last.

Brazenly, she runs her fingers over the collar of his coat, pulling him behind another set of packing crates piled almost as high as his head. "Okay," she says. "Talk."

"I mean," he says, grabbing her hands, removing them from his lapels. "You need to talk. You've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do."

"Okay," she says, her nose just a couple of inches away from his. "Ask away."

He doesn't know where to start. Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you stop me? What the hell were you thinking?

What the hell was _I_ thinking.

"How were you in Bunker Hill?," he asks. "You were supposed to be in the Glowing Sea, with Danse. What did you do, give the mission to someone else? Send him alone?"

"No," she says, with a slightly hurt tone to her voice. "We're just very efficient. When we finished a little earlier than expected, I suggested that he might like to check up on the guys in Cambridge. He misses them." She smiles, a mischievous smile. "Not like _that_ , though. As far as I know."

He ignores the reference. "Did you know I'd be there?"

She looks away.

He tightens his grip on her wrists.

"One of the Scribes asked me about it," she says, quickly. "She had a lot of questions, how it is now, how it used to be. It was odd. When I asked her who was asking, she just sort of pointed in the air."

He curses himself. He knew he should have done his own research.

But... she knew he was going to be there. She was counting on it. And it still... it all still happened.

And now here she is, pressed against a wall, her wrists caught in his hands. She's biting her lip, showing her throat to him, and...

_Fuck_.

If it was inappropriate before, it's even more inappropriate now.

He looks over his shoulder again.

"It's fine," she says. "Nobody will come this way."

With a rush of lust, he decides he has nothing to lose. He backs her against the wall, and crushes her lips with his. He releases her hands, the better to scratch his fingernails down the back of her neck, to press his hands over her breasts, over her hips, over all of her.

At first, her hands grab onto his lapels, pulling him in close, responding to his attentions. Then she loosens her grip, pushes him away, and her hand starts to walk down his chest, her eyes glittering into his all the while.

Before it can reach the fastenings he takes that hand and replaces it on his collar.

It's _her_ turn.

He pops open the top button of her pants, and slides his hand inside.

"Oh," she says, a smile spreading across her face.

He leans in and grazes teeth over her neck, while his finger traces a lazy circle around her clit.

"Oh god," she says, her breath coming faster already.

Slowly, carefully, he slides the tip of one finger inside her, holding her steady with his palm. He keeps her there for a moment, not moving, waiting for her reaction.

It's worth it.

She lets out a needy whine, the effect of which is only enhanced by the expression on her face, and the way she tries to push her hips toward him. "Please," she says, tightening her grip on his collar, "don't tease me."

"Why not?" he asks, dragging his finger back to rest lightly against her clit again.

She gasps, and shudders. "It's just not fair," she says, breathlessly.

He nods, slowly, pretending to think.

It's probably true. She certainly didn't hold back.

Besides, this time, it's better. He can see her every reaction. How her smile widens after every sharp intake of breath, how her brow crumples with every whispered 'oh'. And how every time she reopens her eyes, they return straight to his, like they don't want to look anywhere else.

It's _far_ better.

Working with her rolling hips, working against them if that's what her expression tells him to do, he strokes his fingers inside and outside of her. She fucks herself onto his hand, slick and warm and tensing around his fingers, breath hot on his cheek until, as she comes, she buries her face in his collar. Her moans, muffled by the fleece, vibrate right through his chest. Her body goes rigid in his arms.

He doesn't even think to touch her hair.

Pullng away, her head falls back against the wall, her neck stretched out long. As he withdraws his hand from her pants and rebuttons them for her, she shivers.

"Fuck _me_ ," she says. Her cheeks are pink, her breath still fast, her eyes bright and glittering. "That was incredible."

He allows himself a satisfied smile.

She mirrors it.

"So," he says. He presses himself in close to claim a kiss, one she returns enthusiastically. "In Diamond City, you're Blue. In Bunker Hill, you're Charmer. What do I call you here?"

"Here?" she says. "Here, in the home of the Minutemen?"

He shifts on his feet, thinking that's an odd way to phrase it.

She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, a smile spreading across her face. "You can call me General."


	9. Chapter 9

As if on cue, a voice comes from outside, echoing around the bare concrete walls of the Castle.

"General?" it says.

It's Garvey.

She presses a finger to her lips, _be quiet_ , and reaches past him. From an open crate, she pulls out a dark blue military-style coat and shrugs her way into it. "Right here," she says, not a hint of fluster in her voice, striding out past the crates behind which they'd been hidden.

Arthur swallows nervously. He pulls his coat closed in front of him, and follows her out.

The Minuteman is standing in the archway. "Oh," he says, his eyes switching between the two of them. "You found the Elder. Is everything alright?"

"Perfectly," she says. "I've explained the situation, or at least started to. Give us a little more time, though."

"Okay then," says Garvey, touching his hat. "Shout if you need anything."

She turns back around. She grins and reaches into another crate to pull out a dark tricorner hat. Another old-fashioned relic of the past. She spins it on her fingers. "No way I'm getting this over my hair," she says. "But the guys like if I at least take it with me. Come on."

She walks out into the courtyard, nodding at Garvey again, and heads for a set of metal stairs leading up on top of the walls.

Somewhat blindly, Arthur follows her.

She walks slowly, allowing him to catch up. Along one side of the Castle, they remain silent. Only the sea to their right, lapping gently on the rocks.

They turn onto the second wall.

"General?" he says.

She nods.

"Why didn't you say?" he asks.

"Would you have hired me, if you'd known?" she replies.

He couldn't argue that. "Were you spying?"

"No." She pauses, and laughs to herself. "Let's just say, I wasn't open about my identity. Then... one thing led to another. In some ways I regret that it went as far as it did."

He knows how that feels.

"And in some ways you don't," he says.

He knows exactly how that feels.

She glances at him, and smiles. "Precisely."

On the third wall they look down into the courtyard. Danse looks up, with a curious expression on his face.

"Did he know?" asks Arthur.

"No," she says. "He had no idea. Of any of it. Don't... don't make an example of him. For not being aware enough, or whatever. I feel like enough of an ass as it is."

"I would never do that," says Arthur.

She lets out a breath that might be a sigh of relief, and keeps walking.

On the fourth wall, she pauses to toe a lump of dislodged cement off the wall.

"So what brought this about?" he asks. "Why come clean now?"

She brushes away another couple of pieces of cement, or stone. "I've been into the Institute," she says.

That, more than anything, shocks him to the core.

"You've what?" he asks, moderating his tone with some difficulty.

"Yeah," she says. "I'm sorry. I should definitely have said something about that. It was just... something I had to do myself, to make sure that destroying them was the right thing to do. Now, I'm sure of it. I can't ask the Minutemen to do it without me, hence, the big reveal."

Then, there can only be silence, until they're standing on the final wall, looking out to the north, to the Prydwen. It's with more than a tinge of regret that he says his next words. "You know I can't let you back on the Prydwen."

She nods. "I completely understand. Equally, I can't let you just walk into my Castle whenever you like."

The sea laps against the shore, washing over the pebbled beach. The sound is oddly soothing.

She clasps her hands behind her back. "While you're here, though..."

He matches her stance, looking out to the horizon. "We do have certain diplomatic issues to attend to," he says.

"Indeed," she says.

Maintaining a perfectly respectable distance between the two of them, she leads him down the steps again, and into the walls. Inside, he sees signs of a half-furnished kitchen, some scrappy beds in an alcove, and packing cases everywhere. Half-way back around within the walls, she veers off and pushes open a large wooden door.

The room is surprisingly bright, and airy, with a faint hint of the sea in the air. In the center stands a large desk, piled high with folders and maps and instruments. Beyond that, a large bed, partially concealed by a folded screen.

The door clicks shut behind her.

"Okay," she says. "Let's talk diplomacy." She walks forward, pushing him back until he crashes against the desk. It's heavy, made of solid old wood, so it only scrapes a little way across the floor before holding firm. She pushes up close against him, and he tries not to groan as she finally touches his aching cock.

He has to try not to groan again when she pulls away, almost immediately. But she sheds the coat, pops a couple of buttons on her shirt, and indicates that he should do the same. So he does. He removes his coat, balancing it on one hand, always surprised by how heavy it feels when it's not on his shoulders. He steps away to drape it over the back of a chair. He unzips the top half of his flight suit, and pulls his undershirt over his head.

She stares at him. "God _damn_ ," she says.

He allows himself a satisfied smile.

With her eyes fixed on his, she unbuttons her pants, and slips out of them. She takes his place leaning against the desk, and beckons him in. Even with her mostly naked in front of him, there's a sparkle of blue in her hair that keeps catching his attention. Keeping her pinned to the desk with his hips, he reaches up, grabs the pin between his fingers, and pulls it out.

He shows it to her. "Nine left," he says, before pocketing it.

She smiles. "Eight," she says. "You didn't notice the first one."

"Always one step ahead," he says.

Her smile widens into a grin.

He looks over her shoulder at the desk. Leaning against it is fine, but with what he's got planned, they're going to need more space.

"I think we need more room to manoeuvre," he says, wryly.

"Don't even think about it," she replies.

With one arm around her waist, he sweeps the papers onto the floor.

"Goddamnit," she says, lifting a leg to hook around the back of his thigh. "Preston's going to kill me."

He drags his teeth over her neck, eliciting a sigh. "You're his commanding officer," he says. "He can't treat you that way."

And that reminds him of something.

He dislodges her leg, turns her around, and pushes her down over the desk, placing a hand on the middle of her back to steady her.

"I believe you complained before about me unloading myself onto you, as you put it, without even telling you my name," he says, stroking her buttock. "Who's guilty of that this time?"

"I suppose I am," she says, a catch her voice.

He brings his hand down, hard, the slap echoing around the room.

She gasps, audibly.

He waits long enough for the red handprint to show up on her skin, stroking over it with gentle fingers.

"And I think someone lured me to this place under false pretences," he says, repositioning himself to give her other buttock a light squeeze. "Who could have done such a thing?"

"I did," she says, more of a whimper than actual words.

He doesn't do anything. Not until she looks over her shoulder, her eyes dark with need.

He brings down his hand again, the slap echoing around the room.

"Fuck," she says, somewhat indistinctly. She moves under his hand, not trying to escape, pressing herself toward him. Her whole body is shaking, either with cold or excitement or he doesn't know what. He doesn't care, either, because by now he fucking needs her. He tells her to get up, to turn around, then lifts her back onto the desk. She's so wet for him that he just slides right in, a low growl escaping his throat as he bottoms out.

For a little while, he holds her close, hooking an elbow under her knee to get as deep as he can. But soon, he pushes her back to lie on the desk, so he can watch. He wants to see all of it. His cock as it drives into her, the rolling of her hips as she takes it in. Her hand fluttering now up to her breast, stroking the soft skin around her nipple, now down to her clit, her circling fingers causing her to tense around him.

Far too soon her back starts to arch off the desk, her mouth opening as if preparing to cry out. She takes both her hands and presses them over her mouth, but he can still her her muffled cries, and he can still see her eyes returning to his. She shudders one last time, moans, and falls limp before him.

It's broad daylight. She knows who he is, and she doesn't care. No, she _does_ care. She likes it. She _wants_ it.

For the first time, he doesn't have to pretend not to be himself.

It's _liberating_.

Just that thought brings his own climax rushing closer. He pulls out and continues to fuck against her, and into her hands when she brings them down to meet him. With one of her hands on his cock, the other on his balls, he comes hard, as hard as he can ever remember doing before, spilling through her fingers and onto her stomach. He bends forward over her, his legs half collapsing under him, and buries his face into her neck. He could stay in this room forever and he'd be happy.

The only problem is, they still have to do some actual diplomacy.

Cleaned, dressed, they return out into the Castle. Somehow, both of them keep a straight face when being asked about the progress of negotiations. After a couple of rounds of this, he pulls her to one side. "At some point we'll have to decide what the outcome of those negotiations were."

She just grins. "Negotiations are ongoing," she says.

He thinks that means she wants more.

During a dinner with all of the Minutemen, sat around battered old desks for dinner tables, she takes every opportunity to assure him of it. She gives him a place opposite her, and makes sure he sees every time she licks her fingers. She runs her toes up his legs, against his inner thighs. She catches his eye, plays with a curl of hair, pulls out another couple of pins.

There are only six left.

After the meal, she walks him through the corridors. "We don't really have guest quarters," she says. "And I can't make an Elder sleep out in a drafty corridor, so you'll have my room. Here."

She produces a key. She's leaving him alone. Of course. At this time of night, they don't have the excuse of official discussions.

He unlocks the door. "Where will you go?" he asks, trying not to sound disappointed.

"I'll find somewhere," she says, airily. "Maybe down in the armory. Nobody goes there." She clears her throat. "In fact, nobody would ever know if I'd been there or not."

He looks up and down the hallway. Not a soul in sight, or hearing.

He grabs the lapels of her coat, and pulls her into the room.

At six o'clock in the morning she's on her knees again, his cock deep inside her, this time astride him with bright sunshine all around. He can see everything he ever wanted, but what he enjoys most is the look of utter joy on her face.

She can probably see the same on his.

Lifting his knees, he pulls her down onto her elbows, raking a hand through her hair. He catches it in his fist, uses it to help bring her lips to his. He swallows her whines with his mouth, helps her along until she comes for him once again, utterly losing control under his touch.

After, she collapses down next to him, pitching face-forward into the pillow much the same as he had, way back in Diamond City.

"So," she says, breathing heavily, turning his face to hers for a sticky kiss. "I've not been a politician for very long. How often does one have to discuss diplomatic matters, in your experience?"

"No more than every three months," he says, picking up a tress of her hair, twining it around his fingers. "Depending on the nature of the relationship, of course. It can go longer than that."

She looks into his eyes, and he's fairly sure they're thinking the same thing.

_I'll never last that long._


	10. Chapter 10

Mina Brooke is a young woman with a very important and very stressful job. Her mental energy is exhausted by her responsibilities. Her physical energy by a half-hearted fitness regime. Her baser needs...

I think you know enough about those by now.

She's sitting in her office-cum-bedroom in the Castle, behind a solid oak desk. There's a pile of documents to one side, two more on the other, and she's leafing through one particularly fat and tedious-looking folder right now. Let's be kind to her, and not think too hard about the ones hidden from view under the desk, by her feet.

Oh.

Too late.

Her eyes have closed and her head is drooping. Her forehead comes to a rest on the desk's wooden surface, and she mutters to herself.

"Fucking bureaucracy," she says. "If anything had to survive the apocalypse, why did it have to be the paperwork?"

Then there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," she says, trying to hide the annoyance in her voice.

"General," says Preston, nervously. He has another set of documents in his hands.

She does an even worse job of keeping the annoyance from her face.

"Sorry," he says. "Uh... where would you like them?"

She forces a smile, and pats the pile to her right. It's the wrong one. But if she starts actually ordering them, it'll be real bureacracy, and she's damned if she'll start some kind of ticketing system. That's definitely a step too far.

Preston makes a hurried and apologetic exit, and leaves her to her thoughts.

And they're _certainly_ not going to help her with paperwork.

She and the Elder had managed to drag the 'diplomatic discussions' out for three days before they'd decided to call it quits. Nobody was talking, at least that she knew, but they'd had a very close call in the armory that reminded them both of the thin ice on which they were skating. So they threw together a list of accommodations and agreements they'd probably have made in the course of those 'discussions'. Then he'd left, his vertibird carrying him away back to the Prydwen, taking the Paladin too.

So all she's got left is her thoughts. And they are _very_ distracting. When she's supposed to be reading about water purifier efficiency, she instead finds herself drifting off into daydreams about his finely sculpted body. When she closes her eyes she can see the patterns of hair over his chest, over almost all of him. And she's constantly distracted by thoughts of his cock, just the perfect size and with a very interesting curve...

_Fuck._

"This really isn't helping," she says to herself.

She pushes back her chair, and takes a deep breath. Maybe a walk will do her good. A bit of fresh air. Fresh, cold, sobering air.

It's worth a try, at least.

She makes her way up onto the walls. She raises her hat to Preston, talking to the radio guy down in the courtyard. She nods respectfully at the posted guards, and at the builders, putting the final touches on their works. Since leaving the Brotherhood for the Minutemen, her efforts to rebuild the Castle have been redoubled. Probably more than that, actually. Requadrupled. Two corners of the structure are now equipped with high-powered artillery, as are a couple of settlements, in fact. The Institute has been continuing with their campaign, still quiet and half-hearted, but she needs to be prepared. The Commonwealth needs to be prepared.

 _This is better,_ she thinks, realising that her mind is back on track. _A bit of sobering cold air is exactly what I needed. Now, maybe, I can get on with things._

But when she looks up to the horizon, there it is in full view. The Prydwen. It's ten o'clock in the morning. He'll probably have gotten through his morning briefings, and be thinking about that fitness regime of his. Maybe some weights. A little run around the airport. Perhaps some sparring with his favorite Paladin.

She has a vision of the two men, hot and sweaty, grappling each other to the floor.

She shakes it away, with some effort.

Taking a slow, steady breath, she tries to focus back on reality. A vertibird detaches from the underside of the zeppelin, and flies off to the north. Another approaches over the sea, and sits in the air beneath the Prydwen as silently as a hoverfly over a bottle of Nuka-Cola. She watches it, blankly, letting the sound of the waves soothe her.

Thoughts of him still pop into her mind, but they're more abstract, and easier to push aside. Now it's just the metallic clink of cold holotags on her chest. It's being lifted off her feet as though weightless. It's that delicious cock of his sinking right into her, while his fingers curl into and pull hard at the very roots of her hair.

"That's not fucking abstract," she says to herself.

It's no good. She can't even go inside and work out her frustrations alone because her hands have _never_ been enough for her. As the General, she can't just sweet-talk one of these Minutemen into her bed, cute as most of them are. And she has no fucking idea where Cait is.

No. It's time to face facts. She knows what she needs. And she knows exactly where to get it. So she heads back inside and throws some things into a pack. A couple of changes of clothes, a few provisions for the road, and a good handful of ammo.

You can never be too careful.

In the courtyard, Preston eyes the pack. "Going somewhere?"

"I'm just heading up north for a couple of days," she says.

"Oh," he says. "Would you like some company?"

"No," she says. "I'll be fine. It's just a quick trip."

  
With her rifle resting casually over her shoulder, she makes her way through the dusty streets. Even without the full General outfit, she's still recognisable. Traders greet her on the road, hailing her by name and asking for news from the Castle. Even their brahmin huff at her shoulder as though they know her. To everyone else, it's the Pip-Boy that's the dead giveaway. There's definitely a few raiders that see it and blanch, backing into their spike-covered hovels like the insects they are.

There are some benefits to being recognised, after all.

When the sky starts to darken, and the streets begin to narrow, she pauses to pull out all her bobby pins. Only six of them today; there was nobody to impress, after all. She combs her fingers through her hair, and twists it into a long plait that hangs heavy over her shoulder. She pulls up her hood, dragging it forward, almost over her eyes. She takes off the Pip-Boy and puts it in her pack. She doesn't need directions, now. The neon signs are pointing her exactly where she wants to go. Where she _needs_ to go.

Goodneighbor.

She's not naive enough to think that nobody will recognise her, you understand. She's been there far too often for that. But at least everyone knows and abides by the cardinal rule.

What happens in Goodneighbor, stays in Goodneighbor.

She pushes open the gate, and steps inside.

Deacon's hovering over by Daisy's shop, as usual. He pretends not to see her, of course. KL-E0 gives her the up-and-down before tossing her head in fake disinterest. Ham gives the standard _you're new but you're okay_ speech, ushering her down into the darkness of the Third Rail. It's busy, tonight. The stools at the bar are taken already, and down in front of Magnolia the seats are packed tight and all occupied.

She gets a drink from Charlie, _caps first, love_ , and casts her eye around the rest of the room. A few older-looking traders. A skinny girl in a surprisingly bright pink dress that shows just the right amount of skin.

And... oh.

Sat in one of the booths is a particularly imposing figure. Wide shoulders, muscled arms, big hand clasped around a bottle of beer. He's wearing a knitted hat, a few more scarves than are necessary for this time of year, and a heavy beard.

The right side of his face is hidden in shadow.

She takes her glass, crosses the room, and slides herself into the booth beside him.

"Evening," she says.

He makes a dismissive noise, and looks away. But under the table, his knee rests easily against hers. And behind his beard lies an unmistakable little smile.

She leans back in her seat, and waits for the night to unfold.

_Perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > I would like to see a story with a mistaken identity. Basically I'd like to see a character incognito hook up with another character who they know, but who doesn't recognize them. Then later on, it's back to daily life. And the incognito person is now suddenly really attracted to the other person but has to hide it because the other person does not realize their friend/acquaintance is the person they hooked up with.
>> 
>> [snip]
>> 
>> Would love to see maxson where maxson is the one who went incognito somehow, but not set on it.
>> 
>> ++ points for the sex to be really really filthy, and go on all night long  
> ++ for more sex when they all come clean  
> ++++ points if the non-incognito one eventually figures it out and starts messing with the incognito one.
> 
> do I get to do a _:mic drop:_? :D
> 
> PS this was so much fun to write. It was only going to be a shitposty comedy oneshot until I found out the source of the prompt, at which point I realised I had to up my game. Here ya go, love. Hope you enjoyed it. ;)
> 
> please do leave me a comment if you have any thoughts, either here or on [tumblr](http://kickerwrites.tumblr.com). 


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